Tuesday, April 4, 2017

The Infamous Trial of a Dead Pope


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"Popes maimed and were maimed, killed and were killed. Their lives bore no resemblance to the gospels. They had more in common with modern rich kids turned hooligans and junkies who haunt beach cafe’s and nightclubs than with Roman pontiffs as the world now sees them. Some owed their preferment to ambitious parents, some to the sword, some to the influence of high-born and beautiful mistresses in what became known as ‘The Reign of the Harlots’." ~Peter DeRosa

Pope Formosus (891-896) was a man who excited strong feelings amongst many in his time. You could say he was the Donald Trump of his day. Some saw him as pious, others saw him as inelegible for the papal throne...and accusations of bribery were also floated.

One pope who was extremely triggered by Formosus was Stephen VII. He dug up the remains of Pope Formosus who by then had been dead for over nine months. In what came to be known as the Cadaver Synod, there, before a group of bishops and cardinals, the former pope was dressed in the rich apparel of the papacy with a crown upon his loose scalp, and the scepter of the holy office in the stiff fingers of his rotting hand!

A terrified young deacon was placed there to ineffectively reply on behalf of the dead Formosus.

Inevitably the dead Pope was found guilty and was stripped of his garments, and several fingers of his right hand that were used in bestowing the benediction were amputated, the body was then dragged through the streets and eventually thrown into the Tiber river.

This was not the end of poor Pope Formosus. 10 years later, Pope Sergius III, had Formosus exhumed and condemned again. He also had his corpse beheaded and then removed three more fingers before again casting him into the Tiber river. The headless remains eventually became entangled in a fisherman’s net, and then returned a second time to the ground at St Peter’s.
-Heinz Schmitz


Philo on the LOGOS/Word by G.R.S. Mead 1905

Philo on the LOGOS/Word by G.R.S. Mead (Article in the Theosophical Review 1905)

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The idea of God found in Philo is that of the more enlightened theology of his time. God is That which transcends all things and all ideas. It would, of course, be a far too lengthy study to marshal the very numerous passages in which our philosopher sets forth his view on Deity; and so we shall select only two passages simply to give the reader who may not be acquainted with the works of the famous Alexandrian, some notion of the transcendency of his conception. For, as he well writes:

"What wonder is it if That which [really] is, transcends the comprehension of man, when even the mind which is in each of us, is beyond our power of knowing? Who hath ever beheld the essence of the soul?"

This Mystery of Deity was, of necessity, in itself ineffable; but in conception, it was regarded under two aspects,—the active and the passive causative principles.

"The Active Principle, the Mind of the universals, is absolutely pure, and absolutely free from all admixture; It transcendeth Virtue; It transcendeth Wisdom; nay, It transcendeth even the Good Itself and the Beautiful Itself.

"The Passive Principle is of itself soulless and motionless, but when It is set in motion, and enformed and ensouled by the Mind, It is transformed into the most perfect of all works— namely, this Cosmos."

This Passive Principle is generally taken by commentators to denote Matter; but if so, it must be equated with Wisdom, which we have just seen was regarded by Philo as the Mother of the Cosmos.

But beyond all else Philo is useful to us for recording the views of contemporary Hellenistic theology concerning the concept of the Logos, the mystery of the Heavenly Man, the Son of God. Even as this word of mystic meaning comes forward in almost every tractate and fragment of our Trismegistic literature, so in Philo is it the dominant idea in a host of passages.

It should, however, never be forgotten that Philo is but handing on a doctrine; he is inventing nothing. His testimony, therefore, is of the greatest possible value for our present study, and deserves the closest attention. We shall accordingly devote the rest of this chapter exclusively to this subject, and marshal the evidence, if not in Philo's own words, at any rate in as exact a translation of them as we can give, for although much has been written on the matter, we know no work in which the simple expedient of letting Philo speak for himself has been attempted.

The Logos, then, is pre-eminently the Son of God, for Philo writes:

"Moreover God, as Shepherd and King, leads [and rules] with law and justice the nature of the heaven, the periods of sun and moon, the changes and harmonious progressions of the other stars,—deputing [for the task] His own Right Reason (Logos), His First-born Son, to take charge of the sacred flock, as though he were the Great King's viceroy."


Of this Heavenly Man, who was evidently for Philo the Celestial Messiah of God, he elsewhere writes:

"Moreover I have heard one of the companions of Moses uttering some such word (logos) as this: 'Behold Man whose name is East,'—a very strange appellation, if you imagine the man composed of body and soul to be meant; but if you take him for that incorporeal Man in no way differing from the Divine Image, you will admit that the giving him the name of East exactly hits the mark.

"For the Father of things that are hath made him rise as His Eldest Son, whom elsewhere He hath called His First-born, and who, when he hath been begotten, imitating the ways of his Sire, and contemplating His archetypal patterns, fashions the species [of things]."

Here we notice first of all Philo's graphic manner (a commonplace of the time) of quoting Ezekiel as though he were still alive, and he had heard him speak; and, in the second place, that the First-born Son is symbolically represented as the Sun rising in the East.

That, moreover, the Logos is the Son of God, he explains at length in another passage, when writing of the true High Priest:

"But we say that the High Priest is not a man, but the Divine Reason (Logos), who has no part or lot in any transgressions, not only voluntary errors, but also involuntary ones. For, says Moses, he cannot be defiled either 'on account of his father,' the Mind, nor 'on account of his mother,' the [higher] Sense,— in that, as I think, it is his good fortune to have incorruptible and perfectly pure parents,—God for father, who is as well Father of all things, and for mother Wisdom, through whom all things came into genesis; and because 'his head hath been anointed with oil,'—I mean his ruling principle shineth with ray-like brilliance, so that he is deemed fit for robing in his vestures.

"Now the most ancient Reason (Logos) of That-which-is is vestured with the cosmos as his robe,—for he wrappeth himself in Earth and Water, Air and Fire, and what comes from them; the partial soul [doth clothe itself] in body; the wise man's mind in virtues.

"And 'he shall not take the mitre from off his head' [signifies] he shall not lay aside the royal diadem, the symbol of his admirable rule, which, however, is not that of an autocratemperor, but of a viceroy.

"Nor 'will he rend his garments,'—for the Reason (Logos) of That-which-is, being the bond of all things, as hath been said, both holds together all the parts, and binds them, and does not suffer them to be dissolved or separated."

In another passage Philo treats of the same subject still more plainly from the point of view of the Mysteries, writing as follows:

"For there are, as it seems, two temples of God;—the one is this cosmos, in which there is also the High Priest, His Firstborn Divine Reason (Logos); the other is the rational soul, whose [High] Priest is the True Man, a sensible copy of whom is he who rightly performs the prayers and sacrifices of his Father, who is ordained to wear the robe, the duplicate of the universal heaven, in order that the cosmos may work together with man, and man with the universe."!

The Cosmic Logos is not the sensible cosmos, but the Mind thereof. This Philo explains at length.

"It is, then, clear, that He who is the generator of things generated, and the artificer of things fashioned, and the governor of things governed, must needs be absolutely wise. He is in truth the father, and artificer, and governor of all in both the heaven and cosmos.

"Now things to come are hidden in the shade of future time, sometimes at short, and sometimes at long distances. But God is the artificer of time as well. For He is father of its father; and time's father is the cosmos, which manifests its motion as the genesis of time; so that time holds to God the place of grandson.

"For that this cosmos is the younger Son of God, in that it is perceptible to sense. The Son who's older than this one, He hath declared to be no one [perceivable by sense], for that he is conceivable by mind alone. But having judged him worthy of the elder's rights, He hath determined that he should remain with Him alone.

"This [cosmos], then, the younger Son, the sensible, being set a-moving, has caused time's nature to appear and disappear; so that there nothing is which future is with God, who has the very bounds of time subject to Him. For 'tis not time, but time's archetype and paradigm, Eternity (or AEon), which is His life. But in Eternity naught's past, and naught is future, but all is present only."

The Logos, then, is not God absolute, but the Son of God par excellence, and as such is sometimes referred to as "second," and once even as the "second God." Thus Philo writes:

"But the most universal [of all things] is God, and second the Reason (Logos) of God."

In his treatise entitled "Questions and Answers," however, we read:

"But why does He say as though [He were speaking] about another God, 'in the image of God I made "man",' but not in His own image?

"Most excellently and wisely is the oracle prophetically delivered. For it was not possible that anything subject to death should be imaged after the supremest God who is the Father of the universes, but after the second God who is His Reason {Logos).

"For it was necessary that the rational impress in the soul of man should be stamped [on it] by the Divine Reason (Logos), since God, who is prior even to His own Reason, transcendeth every rational nature; [so that] it was not lawful that aught generable should be made like unto Him who is beyond the Reason, and established in the most excellent and the most singular Idea [of all]."

From this passage we see that though it is true Philo calls the Logos the "second God," he does not depart from his fundamental monotheism, for the Logos is not an entity apart from God, but the Reason of God. Nevertheless this solitary phrase of Philo's is almost invariably trotted out in the forefront of all enquiry into Philo's Logos-theory, in order that the difference between this phrase and the wording of the Proem to the fourth Gospel may be insisted on as strongly as possible for controversial apologetical purposes.

That, however, Philo is a strict monotheist may be seen from the following passage, in which he is commenting on the words of Gen. xxxi. 13: "I am the God who was seen by thee in the place of God,"—where apparently two Gods are referred to.

"What, then, should we say? The true God is one; they who are called gods, by a misuse of the term, are many. On which account the Holy Word has, on the present occasion, indicated the true [God] by means of the article, saying: 'I am the God'; but the [one so named] by misuse of the term, without the article, saying: 'who was seen by thee in the place,' not of the God, but only 'of God.' And what he (Moses) here calls 'God' is His most ancient Word (Logos)."

This Logos, moreover, is Life and Light. For, speaking of Intelligible or Incorporeal "Spirit" and "Light," Philo writes:

"The former he ('Moses') called the Breath of God, because it is the most life-giving thing [in the universe], and God is the cause of life; and the latter the Light [of God], because it is by far the most beautiful thing [in the universe].

"For by so much more glorious and more brilliant is the intelligible [Light] than the visible, as, methinks, the sun is than darkness, and day than night, and the mind, which is the guide of the whole soul, than the sensible means of discernment, and the eyes than the body.

"And he calls the invisible and intelligible Divine Reason (Logos) the Image of God. And of this [Image] the image [in its turn] is that intelligible light, which has been created as the image of the Divine Reason who interprets its |that is, Light's] creation.

"[This Light] is the [One] Star, beyond [all] heavens, the Source of the stars that are visible to the senses, which it would not be beside the mark to call All-brilliancy, and from which the sun and moon and the rest of the stars, both errant and fixed, draw their light, each according to its power."

The necessity and reason of forming some such concept of the Logos is that man cannot bear the utter transcendency of God in His absoluteness. And applying this idea further to theophanies in human form, Philo writes:

"For just as those who are unable to look at the sun itself look upon its reflected rays as the sun, and the [light-] changes round the moon, as the moon itself, so also do men regard the Image of God, His Angel, Reason (Logos), as Himself."

Such divine vision is the object of the contemplative life for:

"It is the special gift of those who dedicate themselves to the service (QERAPEUONTWN) of That-which-is ... to ascend by means of their rational faculties to the height of the aether, setting before themselves 'Moses,'—the race that is the friend of God, as the leader of the way.

"For then they will behold 'the place that is clear,' [Ex., xxiv. 10. A.V. does not give back this reading, but LXX. reads "The place where the God of Israel stood."] on which the immovable and unchangeable God hath set His feet, and the [regions] beneath His feet, as it were a work of sapphire stone, and as it might be the form of the firmament of heaven, the sensible cosmos, which he ('Moses') symbolises by these things.

"For it is seemly that those who have founded a brotherhood for the sake of wisdom, should long to see Him; and if they cannot do this, to behold at least His Image, most Holy Reason (Logos), and after him also the most perfect work in [all] things sensible, [namely] this cosmos.

"For the work of philosophy is naught else than the striving clearly to see these things."

And later on, in the same treatise, Philo writes still more interestingly and instructively as follows:

"But they who have attained unto wisdom, are, as they should be, called Sons of the One God, as Moses admits when he says: 'Ye are the sons of the Lord God,' and 'God who begat thee,' and 'Is not He Himself thy father?'

"And if a man should not as yet have the good fortune to be worthy to be called a Son of God, let him strive manfully to set himself in order according to His First-born Reason (Logos), the Oldest Angel, who is as though it were the Angel-chief, of many names; for he is called Dominion, and Name of God, and Reason, and the Man-after-the-likeness, and Seeing Israel.

"And for this reason I was induced a little before to praise the principles of them who say: 'We are all sons of One Man.' For even if we have not yet become fit to be judged Sons of God, we may at any rate be Sons of His Eternal Likeness, His Most holy Reason; for Reason, the Eldest [of all Angels], is God's Likeness (or Image)."

And so also we read elsewhere:

"But the Reason (Logos) is God's Likeness, by whom [sci. Reason] the whole cosmos was fashioned."

This Divine Reason of things, then, was the means by which the cosmos came into existence. And so we find Philo writing:

"But if any one should wish to make use of naked terms, he might say that the intelligible order of things is nothing else than the Reason {Logos) of God perpetually creating the [sensible] world-order.

"For the Intelligible City is nothing else but the reasoning of the Architect determining in His Mind to found a city perceivable by the senses after [the model of] the City which the mind alone can perceive.

"This is the doctrine of Moses and not [only] mine. At any rate in describing the genesis of man he expressly agrees that he (man) was fashioned in the image of God. And if this is the case with the part,—the image of the Image—it is plainly also the case with the whole Form, that is the whole of this sensible cosmos, which is a [far] greater imitation of the Divine Image than the human image is.

"It is plain, moreover, that the Archetypal Seal, which we call Cosmos which is perceptible only to the intellect, must itself be the Archetypal Pattern, the Idea of ideas, the Reason (Logos) of God."
And elsewhere also he writes:

"Passing, then, from details, behold the grandest House or City, namely this cosmos. Thou shalt find that the cause of it is God, by whom it came into existence. The matter of it is the four elements, out of which it has been composed. The instrument by means of which it has been built, is the Reason (Logos) of God. And the object of its building is the Goodness of the Creator."

And again:

"Now the Reason (Logos) is the Likeness of God, by which the whole cosmos was made." And still more clearly:

"But God's Shadow is His Reason (Logos), which using, as it were an instrument, He made the cosmos. And this Shadow is as it were the Archetypal Model of all else. For that as God is the Original of His Image, which he ('Moses') now calls [His] Shadow, so, [in its turn] that Image is the Model of all else, as he ('Moses') showed when, at the beginning of the law-giving, he said: 'And God made man according to the Image of God,' —this Likeness being imaged according to God, and man being imaged according to this Likeness, which received the power of its Original."

Moreover, the Divine Reason, as an instrument, is regarded as the means of separation and division:

"So God, having sharpened His Reason (Logos), the Divider of all things, cut off both the formless and undifferentiated essence of all things, and the four elements of cosmos which had been separated out of it, and the animals and plants which had been compacted by means of these."

With this we may compare the following passage from the Acts of John, where we read of the Logos:

"But what it is in truth, as conceived of in itself, and as spoken of to thee,—it is the marking-off (or delimitation) of all things, the firm necessity of those things that are fixed and were unsettled, the Harmony of Wisdom."

Victor Hugo: Liberty and Justice For All

Victor Hugo: Liberty and Justice For All

Literary lion Victor Hugo inspired an outpouring of generous sympathy for wretched people oppressed by government. He chronicled the evils of police power. He spoke out against capital punishment. He denounced taxes and tyrants. He opposed war. He expressed confidence in the ability of free people to achieve unlimited progress.

He was a leading light for liberty during the nineteenth century because of his prodigious and often lyrical output: nine novels, ten plays, and about 20 volumes of poetry, plus essays and speeches. He broke away from the suffocating formality of classical French literature and achieved the immediacy of plain talk. He wrote with high moral purpose about dramatic events and created great heroes of world literature. He enjoyed popular acclaim like no previous author in history.

Hugo’s most beloved work, Les Misérables, nails government as a chronic oppressor. He shows poor people being helped not by government but by the charitable works of a private individual. He tells why a resourceful entrepreneur is an engine of human progress. He celebrates revolution against tyranny, while making clear why egalitarian policies backfire. His hero Jean Valjean does good voluntarily, peacefully.

Hugo fan Ayn Rand, whose novels about heroic individualism have sold more than 20 million copies, told biographer Barbara Branden: “Les Misérables was the big experience. Everything about it became important to me, holy, everything that reminded me of it was a souvenir of my love. It was my first view of how one should see life, wider than any concretes of the story. I didn’t approve of the ideas about the poor and the disinherited, except that Hugo set them up in a way that I could sympathize with; they were the victims of government, of the aristocracy, or established authority. The personal inspiration for me was that I wanted to match the grandeur, the heroic scale, the plot inventiveness, and those eloquent dramatic touches.”

To be sure, some contemporary friends of liberty weren’t as impressed. Alexis de Tocqueville, author of Democracy in America, thought Hugo an “unruly genius.” Lord Acton, among the most respected scholars on liberty, distrusted the blazing eloquence “that nobody but Hugo strives after now. . . . Some of these Frenchmen live on nothing else; and if one plucks them, or puts their thoughts into one’s own language, little remains.”

Hugo, though, courageously backed his convictions with action. In 1822, when he was 20, he defended Vicomte Francois- Réné de Chateaubriand, a famed French author who fell out of favor with the government. A childhood friend named Délon was hunted by police, presumably for his republican politics, and Hugo offered his house as a sanctuary. During the Revolution of 1848, Hugo went from one insurgent stronghold to the next, ducking gunfire all the way, urging an end to violence.

Hugo committed himself to the cause of liberty late in life, when he had the most to lose. As a youth, he had supported the French monarchy, and later he admired Napoleon Bonaparte for supposedly upholding the principles of liberty and equality. When Hugo was 49, he publicly defied tyrannical Emperor Napoleon III. As a consequence, Hugo lost his luxurious homes, his vast antiques collection, and splendid library of 10,000 books, but he emerged as an eloquent exile who championed liberty for people everywhere.

Like Jean Valjean in Les Misérables, Hugo helped the poor by going into his own pocket. He started at home, providing for his estranged wife and his sons who didn’t earn much money on their own. He instructed his cook to feed beggars who showed up at his front door. Every other Sunday for about 14 years, he served “Poor Children’s Dinners” to about 50 hungry youngsters in his neighborhood. His diaries abound with examples of personal charity. For example, March 9th, 1865: “Soup, meat and bread for Marie Green and her sick child.” March 15th: “Sent a set of baby-linen to Mrs. Oswald who has just been brought to bed.” April 8th: “Sheets to Victoire Etasse who is lying in, and without bed-linen.” According to biographer André Maurois, personal charity accounted for about a third of Hugo’s household expenses during his peak earning years.

Hugo was such an idol that his portrait engraving was sold at practically every bookstall in Paris. He had an athletic figure about five feet, seven inches tall. His trademarks were a vast forehead and intense light brown eyes. Early in his career, his long brown hair was brushed back in waves. In later years, his hair turned white, he had it cropped short and grew a moustache with a neatly trimmed beard.

Commitment and Energy
If Hugo wasn’t an original thinker, he brought intense commitment and self-confidence to the cause of liberty. Literary critic Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve observed that when Hugo “grabs an idea, all his energy pushes at it and concentrates on it, and you hear arriving from afar the heavy cavalry of his wit and the artillery of his metaphors.” As Hugo himself declared, “Nothing is so powerful as an idea whose time has come.”

Victor Hugo was born February 26, 1802, in Besancon, France. He was the third child of Sophie Trébuchet, a sea captain’s daughter. An admirer of Voltaire, the witty eighteenth-century French critic of religious intolerance, she apparently never had Victor baptized. His father, Joseph-Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo, had quit school to enlist in the army of the French Revolution, displayed unusual ability, and became a major-general under Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.

Victor Hugo experienced a tumultuous childhood. His parents went their separate ways, and there was a long, bitter custody battle as the children were shuttled back and forth in England, Italy, and Spain. After Napoleon’s downfall, the family had to scramble for a living.

Hugo dreamed of a literary career, but in 1821 his mother died. She left a mess of debts, and his father disapproved of his ambition which was likely to mean tough times. “I shall prove to him,” Victor told his older brother Abel, “that a poet can earn sums far larger than the wages of an Imperial general.” At the time, Hugo struggled to live on two francs a day.

Work
Hugo worked in an austere room with plain rugs, plain draperies, and no wall decorations. He stood while writing at a polished wood desk secured to a wall. He started work soon after 8:00 in the morning and continued until 2:00 in the afternoon. After a substantial lunch, he wrote from 4:00 to 8:00. Then he changed clothes and did work-related reading for three hours. By 11:00 PM, he was ready for a light meal with his wife and friends. “My colleagues spend their days visiting each other, sitting and posing in cafes, and talking about writing,” he remarked. “But I am not like them. I write. That is my secret. What I achieve is done by hard work, not through miracles.”

Hugo’s first collection of poems was published in 1822. Then came a succession of poetic works which put Hugo in the forefront of the romantic movement, exploring emotions with melodrama and exuberant style. He ventured into politics with a poem saluting young French revolutionaries who, in July 1830, had toppled King Charles X after he began restricting individual rights.

Hugo became increasingly infatuated with heroic personalities, Napoleon above all. When Bourbon officials insulted three of Napoleon’s aging marshals, Hugo wrote “Ode a la colonne de la Place Vendome,” a poem bursting with patriotic fervor. It caused quite a stir. Then Hugo wrote a play that idealized Oliver Cromwell, England’s seventeenth-century Puritan military dictator who ordered the beheading of a king. The play wasn’t produced, in part, because it was an obvious target for censorship.
Hugo resolved to succeed in the theater. Censors interpreted his first play, Marion de Lorme, as a slap at Charles X, and the production was shut down. Hugo responded by writing Hernani, discreetly set in sixteenth-century Spain, about a heroic rebel against authority. A lyrical melodrama, it opened at the Comédie Francaise on February 25, 1830, and reportedly enjoyed the most enthusiastic reception since the acclaimed plays of Voltaire a century earlier. Government censors feared that closing it down would provoke an uproar. Two years later, censors did shut down Hugo’s next hit play, Le Roi s’amuse, which included an unflattering portrayal of Francois I, among the most famous of French kings. Giuseppe Verdi, Italy’s outstanding opera composer who had turned Hernani into an opera (Ernani), called Le Roi s’amuse “the greatest drama of modern times,” and it became the basis for his popular opera Rigoletto.

Hugo had already set his sights on writing fiction. His first novel, Bug-Jargal (1826) was a melodrama about blacks rebelling in Santo Domingo, and though critics considered it trash, the public loved it. Then, inspired by the novels of Englishman Walter Scott, Hugo wrote a medieval epic of his own: the anti-royalist Notre-Dame de Paris (1831) about the hunchback Quasimodo who falls in love with the gypsy heroine Esmeralda. The intensity of feeling and vividness of language captivated readers throughout the Western world. “Hugo,” wrote literary critic Théophile Gautier, “is the greatest of living French poets, dramatists and novelists. He has no peer.”

“Ideas Are My Sinews and Substance . . .”
Hugo was a shrewd observer of life around him. “Ideas are my sinews and substance,” he remarked. “I must use them to earn my living and to make my continuing mark in the world, so I husband them, and never fritter them away. An observation, a feeling, even a fleeting sensation, all these are the precious marrow which compels me to stand at my writing desk.”

Meanwhile, Hugo’s wife, Adele—they had been married in 1822—was bored with poetry, plays, novels, and their three children. By 1831, she had begun an affair with literary critic Sainte-Beuve. She refused to continue relations with Hugo, and he launched an extraordinary succession of affairs. Most were short-lived, but one—with actress Juliette Drouet—began in February 1833 and endured until her death a half-century later. Four years younger than Hugo, she had long black hair, violet eyes, a slim figure, and considerable knowledge of French literature. He paid her substantial debts, she became utterly loyal, copied his manuscripts, and performed other secretarial work. “I look on you,” he wrote, “as the most generous, the worthiest and the noblest of all. . . .”

He plunged into political controversies. He had already written Le Dernier Jour d’un condamné (Last Day of a Condemned Man), a polemic against capital punishment. King Louis-Philippe named Hugo a peer, which meant he became member of the French Senate and could participate in political deliberations. The French Revolution of 1848 overthrew Louis-Philippe, and in December there was to be an election for President of France. Hugo and a newspaper he edited backed Louis-Napoleon, who had a magical name although apparently he wasn’t related to Bonaparte.

Having won, Louis-Napoleon conspired for absolute power. Government thugs smashed printing presses and newspaper offices. The government sent soldiers to Italy where they defended the Pope’s power against republicans. Hugo, who had romanticized charismatic leaders, recognized the evil of political power. He became the leading voice of opposition to Louis-Napoleon. He ridiculed the President as “Napoleon le Petit”—“Napoleon the Little.” Louis-Napoleon imprisoned Hugo’s sons Charles and Francois-Victor. In December 1851, Louis-Napoleon disregarded a law limiting the President to one term and declared himself Emperor Napoleon III. Hugo formed a Committee of Resistance, but the Emperor’s soldiers crushed all opposition and went hunting for Hugo.

Exile
Juliette Drouet arranged a safe house, disguised him as a shabby laborer, provided a passport for a new identity, and on December 11th got him aboard a night train for Brussels. She followed two days later. By becoming a political exile, Hugo forfeited virtually all his assets. Moreover, his royalty income had exceeded 60,000 francs a year, and it was illegal for French publishers to continue sending him checks. He soon proved too controversial for the Belgians who were trying to maintain good relations with Napoleon III. Hugo and his entourage settled on the Channel Isle of Guernsey, and that became his home for the next 14 years.

Hugo earned good money from his political writings. Les Chatiments (Castigations), a 6,000-line poem, garnered him 75,000 francs, so he was able to pay 10,000 francs for Hauteville House. It was a magnificent four-story manor. He resumed his rigorous work routine in the solarium with unbleached linen curtains, a plain rug, and a slab of wood hinged to the wall for his standing desk. As a defiant exile, Hugo wrote in the tradition of intellectual rebels like Rabelais and Voltaire.

After a morning of intense work, Hugo had a “light meal” consisting of paté, omelet, or fish, then roast beef, lamb, pork, or veal with potatoes and several other vegetables, salad, English puddings, cheese, and a different wine with each course. He did his serious eating at dinner which included a dozen or two oysters, soup, fish, perhaps roast chicken, then a hearty meat dish like Beef Wellington, salad, and a rich dessert such as chocolate mousse, followed by perhaps a half-dozen oranges. He remained in reasonable shape because everyday, regardless of harsh weather, he spent a couple of hours hiking along Guernsey’s rugged coast.

From Guernsey came one literary triumph after another. In 1859, Hugo published La Légende des siecles (Legend of the Centuries), an epic poem about the struggle for liberty and human progress. He denounced French King Louis XIV as a tyrant, celebrated the English defeat of the Spanish Armada and portrayed Napoleon III as a frog.

Napoleon III made a public appeal for French exiles to return, but Hugo defiantly responded: “I swore that I would remain in exile until the end, either my own or that of Napoleon le Petit.” The Times of London declared “We are proud that Victor Hugo elects to live on British soil, which is enriched and nourished by his presence.” The New York Tribune added, “His voice is that of free men everywhere.”

Hugo began speaking out more about liberty. He denounced the December 1859 execution of John Brown, who tried to foment slave revolts in Virginia. He encouraged the efforts of Giuseppe Garibaldi to establish a liberal democracy in Italy. “Liberty,” Hugo told a thousand people gathered on the Isle of Jersey, “is the most precious possession of all mankind. Food and water are nothing; clothing and shelter are luxuries. He who is free stands with his head held high, even if hungry, naked and homeless. I dedicate my own life, whatever may be left of it, to the cause of liberty—liberty for all!”

Les Misérables
Hugo turned to a project long simmering in his mind. This was a novel tentatively titled Miseres for which he started making notes in 1840. From 1845 until work was interrupted by another French Revolution on February 21, 1848, he pushed ahead with it, changed the tentative title to Jean Trejean and put aside the manuscript. On April 26, 1860, he went to the tin trunk where he had stored the manuscript and resumed work. “I have spent almost seven months in thinking over and clarifying in my mind the whole work as I first conceived it,” he noted, “so that there might be complete unity in what I wrote twelve years ago and what I am going to write now.” He suspended his twice-a-day feasts, and his pen was ablaze. He wrote about two-thirds of the book in 1861. He finished Les Misérables on May 19, 1862.

The book chronicles the phenomenal saga of Jean Valjean, a peasant imprisoned 19 years for stealing a loaf of bread and breaking free from prison. He manages to escape again, adopts a new identity, and redeems himself through peaceful commerce, creating a successful manufacturing business which helps an entire region prosper. He builds schools and distributes a substantial part of his wealth to the poor. He rescues Cosette, an impoverished girl, from a monstrously abusive foster father and raises her himself. Despite abundant good works, Valjean is trailed by ruthless police inspector Javert who is intent on returning him to prison. He flees with Cosette, the business closes, and the region plunges into depression. When Valjean finds himself in a position to kill his tormenter Javert, he lets the inspector go free. Meanwhile, Cosette falls in love with Marius, a revolutionary republican who becomes severely wounded amidst the failed Paris uprising of 1832. Valjean saves him from police by carrying him through the only available escape route—the dangerous sewers of Paris. Marius marries Cosette, Valjean confesses to Marius that he is an old convict, and the horrified Marius banishes him from the household, which brings on his final illness. But just before Valjean dies, everyone is reconciled as Marius learns the full story about the man’s saintly deeds.

While Les Misérables exudes generous sympathy for the most wretched among us, Hugo stood apart from the socialist trend of his time. He seemed to be countering the Marxist dogma of class warfare when he wrote “There has been an attempt, an erroneous one, to make a special class of the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie is simply the contented portion of the people. The bourgeois is the man who has now time to sit down. A chair is not a caste.”

Hugo pressed his attack: “Communism and agrarian law think they have solved the second problem [distribution of income]. They are mistaken. Their distribution kills production. Equal partition abolishes emulation. And consequently labour. It is a distribution made by the butcher, who kills what he divides. It is therefore impossible to stop at these professed solutions. To kill wealth is not to distribute it.”

Hugo expressed confidence that private enterprise and peace would alleviate poverty: “All progress is tending toward the solution. Some day we shall be astounded. The human race rising, the lower strata will quite naturally come out from the zone of distress. The abolition of misery will be brought about by a simple elevation of level.”

Hugo decided to have Les Misérables brought out by Albert Lacroix, a Brussels publisher whom he considered a good businessman. The contract called for Hugo to receive a million francs—one-third upon signing, one-third in six years, and one- third in 12 years. The book was perhaps the first international publishing event, going on sale simultaneously in Amsterdam, Leipzig, London, Paris, New York, and other cities. Within a decade, it was published in some 40 countries. In 1874, full rights reverted to Hugo, and he authorized inexpensive editions. Altogether, some seven million copies of the book sold during the nineteenth century. With Les Misérables, Hugo earned more money than any author before.

Hugo continued to focus on novels. In 1866, he produced Les Traveilleurs de la Mer (Toilers of the Sea), about a heroic fisherman who struggles against the elements. In 1869, Hugo wrote L’Homme qui rit (The Man Who Laughs), a historical romance about a kidnapped English boy reared by gypsies, who exposes the failure of ruling elites.

Hugo spoke out anew as Napoleon III intervened in the affairs of other countries. Napoleon’s military adventure in Mexico backfired. He got into a war with Prussia, and Prussian soldiers advanced toward Paris. Napoleon III abdicated September 4, 1870. Hugo gathered together his family and arrived in Paris the following day. He had gained some weight during his exile, there were circles around his eyes, and he sported a white beard, but his free spirit was still unmistakable.

Return to France
Thousands of people lined the streets as Hugo’s carriage made its way to his new residence. There were shouts of “Vive la République!” and “Vive Victor Hugo!” Vendors openly sold his polemical poetry, and popular actresses like Sarah Bernhardt held public readings of it, donating the proceeds to help defend France against the Prussian onslaught. Hugo wrote a prophetic letter to the Germans, which urged that they make peace and warned that humiliation of France would trigger venomous hatred and ultimate defeat of Germany. Germany’s “Iron Chancellor” Otto von Bismarck disregarded Hugo’s appeal, Paris surrendered on January 29, 1871, and a half-century later embittered Frenchmen celebrated Germany’s ruin during the First World War.

In February 1871, Hugo was elected a Deputy to the National Assembly of the French Third Republic. He railed against the humiliating settlement which involved French surrender of most of Alsace-Lorraine to Prussia, but it was ratified by a war-weary majority. Hugo denounced socialists who attempted a violent takeover and conservatives who struck back with fury.

Through all this, Hugo continued his disciplined writing. His most notable work in France—his last novel—was Quatre-vingt-treize (Ninety-Three), a drama focusing on the climactic year of the French Revolution. His hero Gauvain was a liberal republican who courageously opposed the Terror. Ayn Rand wrote an enthusiastic introduction to a reprint because the book was about individuals committing themselves to moral values, and because Hugo had inspired much of her own work.
During his last years, Hugo was depressed by the death of his sons, but in other respects he had a grand time. He continued to arise at dawn and write till midday. L’Art d’etre grand-pere (The Art of Being a Grandfather [1877]), his collection of sentimental poems, further enhanced his popularity. Hugo had more romantic adventures. His personal fortune surpassed $1,400,000, an enormous sum in those days. He entertained as many as 30 dinner guests nearly every night. As Hugo began his 80th year, February 26, 1881, he was honored with a National Festival, a celebration the likes of which had never been seen for a private individual—some 600,000 admirers paraded by his opulent residence, 130 Avenue d’Eylau, in the Champs Elysées quarter, leaving huge mounds of flowers.
Nothing, however, could restore his spirits after the death of his beloved Juliette, of cancer, May 11, 1883. She was 77. Then on May 15, 1885, Hugo got what seemed like a bad cold. It turned out to be pneumonia. He was wracked with fever and struggled to breathe. He died around 1:30 in the afternoon, May 22nd, at 83. He was placed in a pauper’s coffin, as he had requested, and set beneath the Arc de Triomphe. Then an estimated 2 million people watched as a mule cart carried him to his resting place at the Panthéon. He was buried beside Voltaire.

Since Hugo’s time, his reputation outside France has endured with a single novel—nearly all his other novels, plays and poems forgotten. But that novel, of course, is Les Misérables, which has touched more hearts than ever. In 1978, French composer Claude Michel-Schonberg and lyricist Alain Boublil began work on a musical production of Les Misérables. On October 8, 1985, it opened in London, and two years later, on March 12, 1987, it came to Broadway. “A thrilling musical experience,” declared Time magazine. Les Misérables has played in Australia, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Israel, Japan, the Philippines, Poland, Singapore—22 countries altogether. Some 41 million people have seen this inspiring story of liberty and justice for all, Victor Hugo’s most precious gift to the world.
Jim Powell
Jim Powell
Jim Powell, senior fellow at the Cato Institute, is an expert in the history of liberty. He has lectured in England, Germany, Japan, Argentina and Brazil as well as at Harvard, Stanford and other universities across the United States. He has written for the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Esquire, Audacity/American Heritage and other publications, and is author of six books.

This article was originally published on FEE.org. Read the original article.

Monday, April 3, 2017

What is a Ghoul?—Article from the St. Louis Republic 1890


What is a Ghoul?—From the St. Louis Republic 1890

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Is there such a thing as a ghoul? If so, is it a biped or a quadruped, a man or a beast? Edgar A. Poe, in one of his poems—The Bells—assures us that “they are neither man nor woman, neither beast nor human —they are ghouls.” The poet here furnishes the outline and leaves the imagination to complete the picture. The popular belief is that the ghoul lives upon human flesh, and dwells within easy access to a country graveyard, where it can sally forth at night and prey upon the recently buried corpse, carefully covering up all traces of its presence. The ghoul has only in a very few cases been identified with the New World, and is scarcely ever spoken of except as a myth. In Asia, and occasionally in Europe, something is heard of their ravages in burial places remote from human surroundings. In isolated portions of Ireland at certain intervals the cry of “Ghoul” goes abroad, and a thrill of horror accompanies the utterance. An Irishman gives the following account of a ghoul he actually saw: “In 1868, at Laracor church and graveyard, in the County Meath, a ghoul was captured while in the act of depredating the grave of a recently buried infant. I lived at the time of the occurrence about eight miles from the scene. Laracor graveyard was situated on a slope that reached downward to the brink of the river Boyne. It was a solitary spot, two miles from the village, and unfrequented save on the Sabbath, or at all times when the keen of death—or funeral cry of the Irish peasants —was within the gloomy inclosure. In June, 1868, reports reached the county town that graves were being pillaged in that section of the country, and the magistrates determined to arrest the “body-snatchers’ and make them pay dearly for their services in behalf of the physicians, who at that time paid high prices for subjects for anatomical analysis. The village police were notified to proceed to Laracor graveyard, and one fine night in June, obedient to call, six members of the force, accompanied by as many more young men from the neighborhood, arrived at the spot indicated and concealed themselves behind a large tombstone or mausoleum. They waited breathlessly for hours, and about one o'clock a figure was observed to glide along the west wall of the inclosure, and paused a moment, as if to listen, and then fell upon all fours and crept to a newly made grave, where it began tearing up the earth in dog fashion and with marvellous rapidity. The watchers remained quiet for ten minutes before making an onset, and then rushed forward and surrounded the thief. But, to their horror, the creature leaped to its feet, uttering a hoarse, inhuman scream that almost terrified them to death. The moon shone out vividly, and by its light they beheld a being in form of a man, that to look upon was to loathe beyond endurance. A body covered with thick, crispy hair from head to foot (face and palms included), eyes small and sunken with a wild glare, mouth large and brutal with four tusks at least five inches long, curved inward and hiding a small, receding chin. The nails, three and a half inches in length, were strong and thick and hollow as a gouge.

This creature was fully five feet ten inches in height, but so lean and fleshless that its weight did not exceed one hundred and twenty pounds. The crown of the head pointed upward, and the circumference around the brow was not over twelve and a half inches. The most remarkable feature of the visage (save the tusks) was a pair of gigantic ears of the human shape and standing out from the head. As we gazed upon the hideous spectre in our midst a strange, superstitious dread took possession of the boldest of the party. Yet it moved not a muscle; only the quick, wild and glaring eyes were in action, to discover a chance of escape from its persecutors. ‘God in His mercy and the Virgin save us!" uttered Constable Knowles, crossing himself, ‘it’s a ghost.' It was half an hour before some of the party could be induced to assist in securing and binding the creature, and yet it made no other opposition than to moan piteously at intervals. News of the capture spread far and wide. Mass was said at the village church before daylight, for the dreadful monstrosity was carried into the village, and the people were stricken almost dumb with fear. This was on a Saturday night. On the following Monday the petty sessions convened at Kells, where the county magistrates sat upon the bench, awaiting besides their ordinary routine a novel and interesting subject for investigation. The excitement rose to such a pitch that the police lost all control of the mob, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that the object of horror could be led from its cell to the jaunting-car which was standing in front of the building. When at last it was ushered forth a shudder of horror passed through the assembly, and several hundred voices murmured ‘Christ save us, 'tis a ghoul.” As the vehicle passed through the courthouse I, with others, ascended the stone steps to get a better view. It was then that, for the first time, the ghoul, driven to distraction by the mass of surging humanity, made a desperate struggle for liberty. Unshackled, the creature sat between two police, when suddenly it grasped both men by the throats and hurled them from the car. Before further damage could be done, a policeman on the opposite side struck the ghoul with a heavy baton and secured it hand and foot. When brought before the court the strange creature exhibited a vacant demeanor, and uttered not a sound nor moved a muscle. Several of the magistrates undertook to ply it with questions, but they might as well have addressed a statue. At length a jury was impaneled, and the result was a verdict of insanity and a committal to the lunatic asylum at the capital. Orders were then and there issued to scour the vicinity of the graveyard for further testimony. The result was the discovery of a shallow cave beneath a ledge of rock which projected from the river bank and was accessible only by entrance from the water, which was fully four feet deep at the spot. The discoverers of the cave ran a boat to the opening, entered, made search and discovered a quantity of human bones, chiefly children, piled in a corner of the narrow apartment, some of which contained pieces of decomposed flesh. The stench was terrific, and the witnesses declared that they became deadly sick from the few minutes' exploration of the horrible den. Judging from the quantity of bones in the cave, it is hardly likely that its inmate had haunted the spot for over ten or twelve months. A few days after the arrival of the curiosity in the city of Dublin the subject was brought before the medical and scientific faculties of the Irish capital, and full testimony taken in the case. During the examination, the ghoul betrayed no more interest than on the previous event, but remained stolid and motionless. The jailers testified that during its captivity it had refused every species of food, but would drink water ravenously at times. The abstinence could not long continue without disastrous results, and the death of the ghoul within thirty days from its capture is attributed to this cause. And here there arose another question, as to the disposition of the body. When about to lay it in the graveyard attached to the asylum a dispute arose which never has been quite settled. The clergy, at least a leader of one of the denominational churches, objected to the interment of an animal in a Christian burial place, while others claimed that the ghoul was a human, and the body, therefore, entitled to the same consideration as any other sinner. Finally, however, the corpse was carried to the suburbs of the city and laid beneath a tree in a piece of waste land. I cannot do better than refer to the opinion of Dr. Burke, an elderly and eminent physician, who it appears had thirty years previously examined the Kilfinnan ghoul: “I believe, said the doctor, ‘that the benefit of the doubt should have been in favor of the ghoul, and that he should have been awarded human burial. We have no philosophical proof that the creature belongs to a distinctive genus. This specimen is in every respect similar to the Kilfinnan ghoul; both being alike in respect to the tusks, eyes, nails, hair-clad bodies, idiotic heads and enormous ears. The post-mortem analysis in both instances revealed not one single feature foreign to the human race. The doctor, however, would risk no definite assertion as to the origin of the ghoul. History has touched but lightly upon the subject, and in works of ancient eastern authors they are alluded to in a shadowy manner, and coupled with everything that is horrible and repulsive. The creatures had been heard of in Ireland not infrequently, but only three had been captured during a space of thirty years. One of them was caught while asleep, resting its back against a tombstone, in the Kilfinnan graveyard, the half-devoured body of an infant in its possession. Dr. Burke's opinion was that there were only a few in that country, but that these were gifted with great longevity, and travelled during the darkness of the night from place to place. This would account for the many grave robberies that never were traced despite the liberal rewards which were offered. “I believe,” said Dr. Burke on one occasion, “that the ghoul, notwithstanding popular superstition, is a human being endowed with an immortal soul, sprung from man and woman; that owing to estrangement from mankind at an early period, it degenerated and at length developed the strange and horrible traits for which it is peculiar.’”

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Sunday, April 2, 2017

The Easter Bunny and Mythology by J. Holden MacMichael 1906


The Hare And Easter by J. Holden MacMichael 1906 

 The circumstance of Easter Day being always the first Sunday after the full moon which happens on or next after the 21st of March, and of the hare being associated with both Easter and the moon, renders it probable that the hare, so far as Northern mythology is concerned, became identified with the Easter moon through the Druidical worship of Eostre, whose name, in the form of Ashtar, was discovered by Layard on the Assyrian monuments, and was the Anglian equivalent also of Astarte, the Babylonian queen of heaven. Of this worship of the goddess of spring not only is the Coleshill custom of catching the hare, a relic probably, but also that of Hallaton, in Leicestershire, where, as will be seen in Hazlitt's 'Tenures and Land Customs' (1874, pp. 78 and 141), the rector or vicar is called upon every Easter Monday, as a condition upon which he holds certain lands, to provide, among other comestibles to be scrambled for at a place called Hare-pie Bank, two hare pies, followed by sports of a festival character. An old village custom in Germany was eating "Easter-hare"; and hares were caught at Easter for providing a public meal, a custom best known in Pomerania.


Bede alludes to the festivals connected with the worship of Eostre thus (I quote from *Elton's 'Origins of History,' 1882, p. 408):—

"Antiqui Anglorum populi, gem mea apud
eos aprihs Esturmonath, quondam a dea illorum
quae Eostra vocabatur et cui in illo festa celebrantur, nomen habuit." De Temp. Rat. c. 13.

In Germany, where the Easter-egg custom is very tenaciously observed to this day, a nest is in some parts made of moss, and a hare is set in it. This being hidden in the house or garden, the children are sent to lcok for the eggs that the hare has laid. In many districts, says Mr. Cremer ('Easter Eggs,' p. 11), these eggs are used in preparing cakes in the form of a hare. In Saxony there used to be a saying that "the Easter hare always brings the Easter Egg." The process of reasoning by which the hare became so unmistakably identified with the moon at Easter-time, and with egg-laying, is perhaps traceable not only to its "form" resembling a bird's nest, but also to the rapidity of its motion having suggested the flight of a bird, whence it was easy to induce the belief that she laid eggs like a bird. The Mongolian doctrine, says Grimm, in his **'Teutonic Mythology' (Stallybrass ed., 1883, vol. ii. p. 716), sees in the shadows of the moon the figure of the hare: and in Ceylon a hare takes the place of a man, in the moon. Buddha, when a hermit on earth, lost himself in a wood, where he met a hare, who showed him the way. Buddha thanked the animal, and added, "Mr. Hare, I am both hungry and poor, and cannot reward you." "If you are hungry," replied the hare, "I am at your service; make a fire, kill, and roast me." Buddha made the fire, and the hare instantly jumped into it; but Buddha caught hold of it and flung it into the moon, where it still remains. A French gentleman returned from Ceylon said, "The Cingalese would often beg permission to look at the hare through my telescope, and would exclaim in raptures that they saw it."

[*From Origins of English History By Charles Isaac Elton: The custom of catching hares at Easter for providing a public meal is best known in Pomerania: English instances are found at Coleshill in Warwickshire and at Haloughton in Leicestershire, Hid. 78, 141. At the latter place the profits of lands called Harecrop Leys were applied to providing a meal which was thrown on the ground at the "Hare-pie Bank." Nichols, Hist. Leic. ii. 630. These customs were perhaps connected with the worship of the Anglian goddess "Eostre" whose festivals are mentioned by Bede; "antiqui Anglorum populi, gens mea . . . apud eos Aprilis 'Esturmonath' quondam, a dea illorum quae Eostra vocabatur et cui in illo festa celebrantur, nomen habuit." De Temp. Rat. c. 13.]

[**From Teutonic mythology by Jacob Grimm: The spots or shady depressions on the full-moon's disc have given rise to grotesque but similar myths in several nations. To the common people in India they look like a hare, i.e. Chandras the god of the moon carries a hare (sasa), hence the moon is called sasin or sasanka, hare mark or spot. The Mongolian doctrine also sees in these shadows the figure of a hare. Bogdo Jagjamuni or Shigemuni [the Buddha Sakya-muni], supreme ruler of the sky, once changed himself into a hare, simply to serve as food to a starving traveller; in honour of which meritorious deed Khormusta, whom the Mongols revere as chief of the tenggri [genii], placed the figure of a hare in the moon. The people of Ceylon relate as follows: While Buddha the great god sojourned upon earth as a hermit, he one day lost his way in a wood. He had wandered long, when a hare accosted him: 'Cannot I help thee? strike into the path on thy right, I will guide thee out of the wilderness.' Buddha replied: 'Thank thee, but I am poor and hungry, and unable to repay thy kindness.' 'If thou art hungry' said the hare, 'light a fire, and kill, roast and eat me.' Buddha made a fire, and the hare immediately jumped in. Then did Buddha manifest his divine power, he snatched the beast out of the flames, and set him in the moon, where he may be seen to this day. To the Greenlander's fancy these spots are the marks of Malina's fingers, with which she touched the fine reindeer pelisse of Anninga (Majer's Myth, taschenb. 1811. p. 15).]

Dogs Faithful Unto Death by J.W. Hodge 1912


Dogs Faithful Unto Death by J.W. Hodge 1912

MANY and marvelous have been the achievements which history has recorded to the credit of faithful, sagacious and courageous dogs of the past.

History chronicles that the wonderful dog, Xanthippus, heroically swam for miles by the side of his master's galley to Salamis when the Athenians were forced to abandon their city, and the body of that devoted and courageous canine hero was buried by his grateful master on the crest of a beautiful promontory, which to this day bears the name of “The Dog's Grave.”

In ancient history it is recorded that the city of Corinth was saved from enemies who had planned to capture it, by fifty faithful war-dogs who attacked the invading foe that had landed under the cover of darkness whilst the garrison slept, and fought the invaders with unbounded courage until every dog but one of the fifty valiant canine warriors had been killed. That one surviving dog succeeded in rousing the garrison from their slumber in time to save the city.

Among the many pathetic incidents in the lives of famous dogs of history may be mentioned the touching incident in the life of the devoted dog, Hyrcanian, who, on beholding the dead body of his beloved master burning on a funeral pile, leaped into the flames and was consumed with it.

It is quite natural that the Switzers should venerate the memory of the Great St. Bernard, "Barry," over whose grave at Berne, Switzerland, a stately monument has been reared.

There is a large and beautifully kept cemetery for dogs near Asnieres, on the outskirts of Paris, France. When Consul-General Gowdy was lately conducting a party of friends through this canine cemetery, pointing to the tomb of the Great St. Bernard who had saved the lives of forty human beings, he asked “What man can boast of having done so much?"

Can we wonder that Ketmir, that faithful, patient, tireless canine sentinel and guardian of the "Seven Sleepers of Ephesus" was welcomed into Paradise by Mahommet?

The desperate combat, to the death, between the devoted dog of Aubry and his master's murderer was a notable event in the annals of history. In that deadly conflict Aubry's valiant dog proved himself the matchless hero of the hour. That dog's heroic act in his master's defense has never been excelled by any human soldier on the battlefield of war.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Our Fascination with the Ghost Story by Arthur B. Reeve 1919


The Fascination Of The Ghost Story by Arthur B. Reeve 1919

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"WHAT is the fascination we feel for the mystery of the ghost story?

Is it of the same nature as the fascination which we feel for the mystery of the detective story?

Of the latter fascination, the late Paul Armstrong used to say that it was because we are all as full of crime as Sing Sing—only we don't dare.

Thus, may I ask, are we not fascinated by the ghost story because, no matter what may be the scientific or skeptical bent of our minds, in our inmost souls, secretly perhaps, we are as full of superstition as an obeah man— only we don't let it loose?

Who shall say that he is able to fling off lightly the inheritance of countless ages of superstition? Is there not a streak of superstition in us all? We laugh at the voodoo worshiper—then create our own hoodooes, our pet obsessions.

It has been said that man is incurably religious, that if all religions were blotted out, man would create a new religion.

Man is incurably fascinated by the mysterious. If all the ghost stories of the ages were blotted out, man would invent new ones.

For, do we not all stand in awe of that which we cannot explain, of that which, if it be not in our own experience, is certainly recorded in the experience of others, of that of which we know and can know nothing?

Skeptical though one may be of the occult, he must needs be interested in filings that others believe to be objective— that certainly are subjectively very real to them.

The ghost story is not born of science, nor even of super-science, whatever that may be. It is not of science at all. It is of another sphere, despite all that the psychic researchers have tried to demonstrate.

There are in life two sorts of people who, for want of a better classification, I may call the psychic and the nonpsychic. If I ask the psychic to close his eyes and I say to him, "Horse," he immediately visualizes a horse. The other, non-psychic, does not. I rather incline to believe that it is the former class who see ghosts, or rather some of them. The latter do not—though they share interest in them.

The artists are of the visualizing class and, in our more modern times, it is the psychic who think in motion pictures, or at least in a succession of still pictures.

However we explain the ghostly and supernatural, whether we give it objective or merely subjective reality, neither explanation prevents the non-psychic from being intensely interested in the visions of the psychic.

Thus I am convinced that if we were all quite honest with ourselves, whether we believe in or do not believe in ghosts, at least we are all deeply interested in them. There is in this interest something that makes all the world akin.

Who does not feel a suppressed start at the creaking of furniture in the dark of night? Who has not felt a shiver of goose flesh, controlled only by an effort of will? Who, in the dark, has not had the feeling of some thing behind him—and, in spite of his conscious reasoning, turned to look?

If there be any who has not, it may be that to him ghost stories have no fascination. Let him at least, however, be honest.

To every human being mystery appeals, be it that of the crime cases on which a large part of yellow journalism is founded, or be it in the cases of Dupin, of Le Coq, of Sherlock Holmes, of Arsene Lupin, of Craig Kennedy, or a host of others of our fiction mystery characters. The appeal is in the mystery.

The detective's case is solved at the end, however. But even at the end of a ghost story, the underlying mystery remains. In the ghost story, we have the very quintessence of mystery.

Authors, publishers, editors, dramatists, writers of motion pictures tell us that never before has there been such an intense and wide interest in mystery stories as there is to-day. That in itself explains the interest in the super-mystery story of the ghost and ghostly doings.

Another element of mystery lies in such stories. Deeper and further back, is the supreme mystery of life—after death—what?

"Impossible," scorns the non-psychic as he listens to some ghost story.

To which, doggedly replies the mind of the opposite type, "Not so. I believe because it is impossible."

The uncanny, the unhealthy—as in the master of such writing, Poe—fascinates. Whether we will or no, the imp of the perverse lures us on.


That is why we read with enthralled interest these excursions into the eerie unknown, perhaps reading on till the mystic hour of midnight increases the creepy pleasure.

One might write a volume of analysis and appreciation of this aptly balanced anthology of ghost stories assembled here after years of reading and study by Mr. J. L. French.

Foremost among the impressions that a casual reader will derive is the interesting fact, just as in detective mystery stories, so in ghost stories, styles change. Each age, each period has the ghost story peculiar to itself. To-day, there is a new style of ghost story gradually evolving.

Once stories were of fairies, fays, trolls, the "little people," of poltergiest and loup garou. Through various ages we have progressed to the ghost story of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries until to-day, in the twentieth, we are seeing a modern style, which the new science is modifying' materially.

High among the stories in this volume, one must recognize the masterful art of Algernon Blackwood's "The Woman's Ghost Story."

"I was interested in psychic things," says the woman as she starts to tell her story simply, with a sweep toward the climax that has the ring of the truth of fiction. Here perhaps we have the modern style of ghost story at its best.

Times change as well as styles. "The Man Who Went Too Far" is of intense interest as an attempt to bring into our own times an interpretation of the symbolism underlying Greek mythology, applied to England of some years ago.

To see Pan meant death. Hence in this story there is a philosophy of Pantheism—no "me," no "you," no "it." It is a mystical story, with a storm scene in which is painted a picture that reminds one strongly of "The Fall of the House of Usher," —with the frankly added words, "On him were marks of hoofs of a monstrous goat that had leaped on him," —uncompromising mysticism.

Happy is the Kipling selection, "The Phantom 'Rickshaw," if only for that obiter dictum of ghost-presence as Kipling explains about the rift in the brain: "—and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed him to death!"

Then there are the racial styles in ghost stories. The volume takes us from the "Banshees and Other Death Warnings" of Ireland to a strange example of Jewish mysticism in "The Silent Woman." Mr. French has been very wide in his choice, giving us these as well as many examples from the literature of England and France. Finally, he has compiled from the newspapers, as typically American, many ghost stories of New York and other parts of the country.

Strange that one should find humor in a subject so weird. Yet we find it. Take, for instance, De Foe's old narrative, "The Apparition of Mrs. Veal." It is a hoax, nothing more. Of our own times is Ellis Parker Butler's "Dey Ain't No Ghosts," showing an example of the modern Negro's racial heritage.

In our literature and on the stage, the very idea of a Darky and a graveyard is mirth-provoking. Mr. Butler extracts some pithy philosophy from his Darky boy: "I ain't skeered ob ghosts whut am, c'ase dey ain't no ghosts, but I jes' feel kinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts whut ain't!"

Humor is succeeded by pathos. In "The Interval" we find a sympathetic twist to the ghost story—an actual desire to meet the dead.

It is not, however, to be compared for interest to the story of sheer terror, as in Bulwer-Lytton's "The Haunted and the Haunters," with the flight of the servant in terror, the covering of the dog against the wall, the death of the dog, its neck actually broken by the terror, and all that go to make an experience in a haunted house what it should be.

Thus, at last, we come to two of the stories that attempt to give a scientific explanation, another phase of the modern style of ghost story.

One of these, perhaps hardly modern as far as mere years are concerned, is this same story of Bulwer, "The Haunted and the Haunters." Besides being a rattling good oldfashioned tale of horror, it attempts a new-fashioned scientific explanation. It is enough to read and re-read it.

It is, however, the lamented Ambrose Bierce who has gone furthest in the science and the philosophy of the matter, and in a very short story, too, splendidly titled "The Damned Thing."

"Incredible!" exclaims the coroner at the inquest.

"That is nothing to you, sir," replies the newspaper man who relates the experience, and in these words expresses the true feeling about ghostly fiction, "that is nothing to you, if I also swear that it is true!"

But furthest of all in his scientific explanation—not scientifically explaining away, but in explaining the way— goes Bierce as he outlines a theory. From the diary of the murdered man he picks out the following which we may treasure as a gem:
  "I am not mad. There are colors that we cannot see. And—God help me!—the Damned Thing is of such a color!"

This fascination of the ghost story—have I made it clear?

As I write, nearing midnight, the bookcase behind me cracks. I start and turn. Nothing. There is a creak of a board in the hallway.

I know it is the cool night wind-the uneven contraction of materials expanded in the heat of the day.

Yet-do I go into the darkness outside otherwise than alert?

It is this evolution of our sense of ghost terror-ages of it-that fascinates us.

Can we, with a few generations of modernism behind us, throw it off with all our science? And, if we did, should we not then succeed only in abolishing the old-fashioned ghost story and creating a new, scientific ghost story?

Scientific? Yes. But more,-something that has existed since the beginnings of intelligence in the human race.

Perhaps, you critic, you say that the true ghost story originated in the age of shadowy candle light and pine knot with their grotesqueries on the walls and in the unpenetrated darkness, that the electric bulb and the radiator have dispelled that very thing on which, for ages, the ghost story has been built.

What? No ghost stories? Would you take away our supernatural fiction by your paltry scientific explanation?

Still will we gather about the story teller-then lie awake o' nights, seeing mocking figures, arms akimbo, defying all your science to crush the ghost story.

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